


An Unfinished Thing

by AlluringMary



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5, Grand Theft Auto IV, Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Prototype (Video Games), Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alpha Jacob Seed, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Death, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other, Public Sex, Spanking, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlluringMary/pseuds/AlluringMary
Summary: In hommage to all wasted opportunities, dead prompts and incomplete works that will never become full fics.Length of the chapters will widely vary!
Relationships: Alex Mercer/Reader, Alex Mercer/You, Deputy | Judge/Jacob Seed, Haytham Kenway/Reader, Jacob Seed/Reader, Niko Bellic/Reader, Vorik (Star Trek)/Reader, Vorik/Reader, William Miles & Reader, William Miles/Desmond Miles' Mother, William Miles/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	1. [M] Tryst in Color (William Miles/Reader + Soulmate Color AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place circa July 1969, a twenty something William meets his soulmate.
> 
> Word Count: 2,434

You're not sure exactly what time it is. The moon is not out tonight, the lamp is out of gas. A smile tugs at your lips when you remember how exactly you ran out of fuel. William breathes softly, does not snore. You'd like to believe the night's still young, if only to stay with him longer.

You're aware of the rotten work the Assassins pledge themselves to, you're proud to help the small foothold in whatever way you're able. You know of their uncanny climbing skills, their deadly strikes, their masterful way of feigning the simplest tasks to lull their victims closer.

And still you startle when your soulmate comes alive below you. “I'd like to consider myself good-looking but this staring's only stroking my ego.”

“I was only trying to determine whether you were more handsome as you are now or in black and white.”

William opened his eyes and despite the low light, you were once again entranced by the light _blue_ color of his irises. “And what do you think?”

“I shouldn't say, you might take offense.”

Colors were nice, that is what you thought. However, when your civilian and assassin friends asked you, it felt like a necessity to keep your eyes downcast, sometimes gush about the gorgeous hue of William's eye and hair. When you'd first demurely answered that your newfound perception of colors brought a wave of anxiety, one had laughed in your face and justified it as apprehension--

“You haven't yet properly conversed with him after all,” She'd said from across the table. Her lips had quirked into a knowing smile even as her vision remained gray. “Even if he's American, I'm sure William is a lovely fellow.”

Another, a Brotherhood archivist, who had lent you a thin booklet of basic colors bound with metal rings had had a similar reaction, further adding weight onto your chest. “It'll feel strange,” She had explained before pointing to a square on the cover. “This is what color his skin should be... He is white, correct?”

From what you remembered from the spots of colors forming over his face back on the plaza, you supposed he was. Although his skin had been softened with more of this other color, the _pink_ on the opposite page... You couldn't quite describe it, it wasn't the pallid _alabaster_ the book proclaimed the color to be. Frowning, you'd shaken your head and once more, laughter was your response.

“No skin could be so pale,” The archivist had chuckled and unknowingly dealt another blow. “There'll be different shades to everything, but this is a good approximation.”

And what had you done? Thanking them was the obvious course of action and so you had done so. And while receiving words of encouragement, happy accolades and the odd occasional, envious pout, the colors blinded you.

The nuns of the cathedral oft turn a blind eye to you when you enter, they know your face and enough to let you roam on your own so long as you keep silent. Religion has never been your utmost focus, neither is your rendez-vous later this evening--it's the multitude of colors shining in the sunlight.

The archivist had insisted you keep the booklet and before your departure had urged you to get to the cathedral beforehand. Seeing the stained glass from the courtyard, she'd said, was one of her first colored memories. Apparently, you'd regret it greatly if you never witnessed it for yourself from the pews.

Truly you didn't know what you'd expected. Your eyes roved over the spots of _blue_ painted over the ground, regarded with wonder the reflected _red_ and _purple_. The glass itself caught your attention, it looked like it had been crafted by a person with only duochrome vision--the colors clashed, set in the metal haphazardly. Were they meant to fit together? The stained glass didn't appear to be made to look pleasing to the eye.

Once more today you stayed perplexed.

Your mind wandered to the American assassin, your soulmate it would seem. You'd put on a confident front while urging him on to finish his mission but you had been simply too overwhelmed. Your stomach had coiled onto itself after William had rushed to pursue his target. Even purged with the taste of bile sharp on your tongue and an aching throat, you still felt sick when rediscovering the world anew.

And now, while the streets grew dark and you scaled the stairs into the tower, the same sickness devoured you from the inside out. You played, half-distracted, with the gas lamp for the best part of an hour, changing the intensity of the flame to examine the different colors. The dark that fell over the city helped calm your nerves, for a few moments, you could pretend the rest of the world still shone black and white.

It wasn't until later, when you heard William move behind you, that you understood the colors were there to stay. Despite the anxiety filling your lungs, you felt a nervous smile nudge at your lips and, admiring the _blue_ of his eyes, said, “It's strange--”

* * *

“The bell tower,” A rough push of her hand made him stumble back into the crowd. He caught the color of her skin, marveling at the blotches of mismatched spots, scars and hair racing along her arm. “Take care of your business here then you may come find me, assassin.”

Colors formed all around, painting the crowded plaza. They exploded wherever he looked, there he noticed the curve of her lips dragged over her chin delicate shadows, and her eyes caught onto his in a fashion they hadn’t when they had only been black and white.

“The bell tower?” William parroted, unwilling to snatch his eyes away from hers, her nose, her hair-- A single glance away and the rose of her lips would never be the same. There was no time for the Templar, no time for that blasted bell tower, no reason to look but a second away from her eyes.

“Finish your mission.” Her lips moved with the rhythm of the words and soon his gaze dropped along her throat, following the trail of color that spread over her skin, drawing down to her chest. He wondered what the delightful spread of colored skin would look like under her clothes, how the color of his own would look against hers. How they would fit. “And then you may ogle as much as you wish.”

The warmth of her palm left him, dragging along with it the bright color of her painted nails— _red_ , just as his gift had painted his enemies. _Red_!

“Go!” She urged one last time, before backing away into the passing crowd. Muted, he watched her melt into the sea of dispersed colors. There was a pounding behind his eyes, a buzzing in his ears while he refocused on the world around him. The world painted itself brushstrokes by brushstrokes, wiping away the gray from his senses.

But he'd said yes--he believed he'd said yes when she'd told him to meet her later. He hoped he did.

* * *

The island is small but pleasing to the eye from the tiled rooftops; dusk has slowly spread down onto the city. People amble aimlessly into the slight chill, illuminated by the faint _yellow_ glow of the curved streetlighs. The tower, easily the tallest building in this tiny city by the bay is occupied by an antique cracked bell and a small _blue_ shape.

He spies the silhouette slowly pacing about, he can picture the skirts moving about her legs, can imagine _white_ teeth worrying her lower lip. Perhaps her heart beat as fast as his in apprehension, his hands felt empty. It was tradition--for one party to offer a book of collected colors to the other. Bill cursed himself even as he dug his fingertips into the grout in between the old white brick of the church and began his ascension.

He hadn't made any noise as he landed, her back was still turned. Once more his breath stilled. He should have spent more time under the water's spray--he had washed after the Templar's death, cleaned the blood off hands and blade, got under his fingernails and watched with repressed delight as the _red_ ran down into the white sink, scrubbed his face raw. His Brothers and Sisters had laughed at him. A Brother with a small turned-up nose and dashing _brown_ skin, had slapped a hand to William's back and drove him away from the washroom.

“She may not be as us, Brother.” He had begun, not dislodging his hand even as William ran a rough _blue_ cloth over his face to dry it. “But she will not faint at the sight of a speck of blood--or some stubble.”

Yet another chorus of laughter had echoed into the safehouse when, suddenly self-conscious, William had run a hand along his chin.

His eyes ran over her form. Her skirts caressed the back of her knees, it was conservative to be sure but he supposed tradition got--the _white_ cloth of her outer skirt fluttered up as she whirled around. Their eyes met and immediately William wondered which exact shade her eyes were--he truly ached for a detailed palette now.

A buzzing gas light sat her feet, the flame behind the glass flickered with the sudden move but settled. Her gaze fell on it and she said, “It's strange.” Her lips drew into a smile and her eyes shone in the low light as he grew closer, “Fire... it's three different colors. The base is blue and bleeds into red and somehow, the tip turns orange.”

Bill looked back down to the thick, stained glass that distorted the flame inside. “I've heard it's even white at times.”

Later that night, they had stripped down as Adam and Eve, and explored the colors that tinted their skin. He found he had a collection of slightly darker spots along his shoulders and her lipstick did not appear the same shade on his skin than it did on her lips.

If Bill were ever to describe what first seeing color was like, he was sure that as a twenty-something year old boy with hearts in his eyes he would have said something along the lines of 'beautiful' or 'mesmerizing' if he'd been caught after a tryst with his soulmate. Nowadays, world-weary and wizened, the missing half of his soul bearing heavy on his mind, he would reply, “Distracting.”

* * *

Wiliam was looking for a U-bot.

“Pardon?”

“You're looking for a _sunk_ U-bot.” She clarified, as if it made the situation clearer. “My father told me one was sunk by American forces off the coast of Marie-Galante. As far as anyone knows... it's still there.”

“It's been twenty years, it must have been picked clean by the Americans.”

She shook her head, the glint of the golden earrings that hung at her ears caught his eye. “The training ship Jeanne d'Arc was circling the archipelago for the duration of the war. No scavengers would have made an attempt.”

He huffed, “Then it's already rusted and decayed. I might have more chance contracting tetanus than finding a piece of Eden.”

To this day, he refused to admit he nearly retrieved only one from the submarine's carcass.

* * *

“It's a new era, Will.” For some reason she'd never taken to calling him Bill and when asked about it, she would wrinkle her nose as if physically offended by the nickname. “We walked on the Moon, we're asking for peace, they say the remaining colonies might never see another war, that one day they might even be free.” Her hair tickled his chin where she nestled against him.

“You say we,” A smile slithered onto his lips when she looked up at him but it couldn't quite reach his eyes. “But who is this we? Who's standing behind the masses, hiding in the dark, while they use them to bring forth change as they see fit? I know our enemies, and I know they will do anything to prevent progress they don't approve of.”

And his soulmate, ever the peacemaker, had snorted despite her tangible desire to debate. “You Assassins are paranoid.”

And yet not even his paranoia had helped him in saving her.

The last time he had seen in color was approximately half past nine on a warm Saturday night in 1971 after two years spent with her. In the first days following her passing, he found himself morbidly wishing he had witnessed her death, at the very least spotted the one who cut her life short, perhaps share one last moment together while he cradled her to his chest. Had he been there, maybe William could have spotted the Templar agent, maybe even rip her from death's claws.

On Sunday morning, he awoke to a monochromatic world.

The word was that as the _Altair_ pulled from the port, a Templar detachment pulled in from the other side of the archipelago. She'd stayed in the bureau, preparing to join him up in the US in a few months. In total, there were fourteen bodies recovered.

William hadn't listened to the Master's speech announcing the death toll. He'd slowly gathered what letters and trinkets they had exchanged over the years and spent the weeks-long trip aboard hunched over her handwriting, remembering, when running trembling fingers over the scrawl, that those words were once made of blue ink rather than black.  
Colors were distracting, yes, but at this moment he had felt the grayness around him engulf his body, breach his defenses and burrow deep inside of him.

The following years, he believed, had shaped him into the man he'd become.

He'd chosen to keep those letters and gifts, no matter the gray that clung to them. His wife had questioned him before, herself having lost the woman who had brought colors into her life. She kept similar things about the house. William knew their lost soulmates was one of the few things they shared in common. Yet in time, he had realized the tenderness he had begun to feel towards her had developed to a love that went beyond what he had expected.

During the time they strengthened their bond, Bill had progressively shed the face of his soulmate from his fiancé's. However each and every time he felt the pull of love he would first remember the vibrant colors he had experienced on a July evening below a bronze bell, the kind tongue and soft lips that never failed to lull him into hoping for a better world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There can't be a happy ending, really, when mingling with either factions.
> 
> Next up, most likely a short Alex Mercer/Reader


	2. [E] Monster Fucker (Alex Mercer/Reader + Tentacle Fetish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Reader used to be in a relationship, it seems like the new transformation does something for them. 
> 
> Word Count: 1,316

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E to be on the safe side but there's really nothing too explicit. Kind of Tentacle Fetish? I mean I can't just put Biomass Fetish what the hell is even that?
> 
> Reader has no set gender.

The loose gravel squealed when you ground it beneath your feet, the skyscraper building's rooftop was covered in it, making escaping the noise or the sharp digging of them into the soles of your feet impossible. The great height didn't offer much of a view either since you weren't too eager to walk over to the edge and enjoy landscape from this deathtrap. The frequent bursts of cold air didn't help in the slightest and before long you were sniffing and stuffing your palms under your armpits for warmth.

The second this scumbag reappeared, you were gonna kill him yourself.

Morosely, you watched as your phone's battery died out. You gave it half an hour at most and judging by the digital numbers in the corner of the screen, you'd been there longer. “Jerk,” You cursed, and for good measure kicked a few rocks. Before long, you'd cleared an irregular circle around you and in doing so drawn off your boredom for a grand total of two minutes.

_“We need to talk.” That's all he'd said to get your attention away from the glow of the computer screen. After you'd blinked up owlishly at him as a signal to go on, Alex had tightened a hand around your arm and restlessly tugged until you you'd gotten to your feet. “Somewhere else.”_

_“I'm gonna need that back.” Dana hadn't even bothered to turn around to check on what exactly her brother had elected to confiscate. As if you were little more than afterthought and not being dragged off by an atrocious mass of biomass, the woman had added, “In one piece.”_

_You swiped your hand over the cluttered desk for your phone, stumbling over the feet of your chair when he set a brisk pace. “Don't I get a say in this?”_

_“It'll be quick.” Alex had grouched. Through the fabric of your sweatshirt, you'd felt the strange biomass under his human flesh twitch and move. The sensation felt distinctly alien, as if whatever prowled under his skin was ready to flow free at a moment's notice. Heat rose in your cheeks and you felt something in your stomach coil._

_It was no grand secret many people in the safe house feared Mercer's brother, let alone were disgusted by the thing that lurked behind the human disguise. What terrified you, was not the cold exterior, the things he morphed into, his barbed speech or even the acidic way he conversed with you and others--it was your own lack of fear and clear appreciation for those traits that disgusted you._

_You realized quickly where he was taking you. “Why are we going to the roof?” You slid an inquisitive look to him, “I haven't finished with that encryp--”_

_“Doesn't matter.” As always, a man of few words._

_You scaled the stairs, almost in perfect silence and again you asked, “Is this about Karen?”_

_Without much of a warning, his corporeal shape had shifted around you, the once human hand deconstructed into a gathering of sharp, blood-red mass looped around your arm. You'd gotten him angry, for fuck's sake, you just had to open your fucking mouth._

_The door to the rooftop banged open and Mercer, as if he hadn't heard what you just said, offered as a warning, “Hold on.” Vines upon vines of biomass encircled you, running up from your chest and arms. And, embarrassed by the shortness of your breath and the inquisitive look in his ice-blue eyes, you shut your mouth and held on._

Long story short, you'd ended up stranded on this roof four blocks away from the hideout when Alex, who was just about to open his mouth and use actual words communicate, grew rigid and stayed still for approximately ten seconds. When the man/ex/virus/hybrid/atrocity had awoken from his torpor, he'd given you a short order to stay where you were and jumped off the bloody building.

Once more you pace the length of the roof, rub your hands together, run your palm over your cold knuckles. You knew he could run fast, this strangely attractive virus had no business taking so long. You look down at your feet and try to decide which piece of gravel is the smoothest looking when suddenly, the ground shakes.

You look up alarmed, in time to see a squirming mess of biomass writhe away into a humanoid shape. There's a very obvious dent where Mercer stands, the sheer force with which he propelled himself having wrecked the surface around him.

“Where have you been? It's freezing up here!”

“Movement uptown.” Mercer said, not an ounce of an apology in the air.

You watch as he stalked towards you, the line of his shoulders unnaturally rigid, his back too straight. “I need to get back soon, help me off this damn roof.”

Instead of answering, his left arm dissolved into curdling biomass, the fear that spikes of you comes hand in hand with a pressure low in your abdomen. Shaking yourself, you understand he's said something. “What?”

“...I can't remember much about you. But Dana told me we were a couple once.”

“That's... That's it?”

“I wondered...” A tendril of biomass reached beyond the accumulation at his sides and curled around your forearm. For a second you forget breathing isn't optional, your mind goes blank,your world narrows down to the simple touch. Still, you hear when he says, “If perhaps our break-up wasn't more one-sided than you let on.”

The tendril moves over the cloth in small, undulating motions. “Huh...” It's an abomination straight from The Thing but you can't take your eyes off it, much less feel warm all over despite the cold when the vine curling around your arm folds in two, joining in two and doubling in size when the tip pokes at your neck.

“And--” You swallow, trying to focus your attention away from the ministrations. “And what--”

“I get it now,” Alex says, dropping his voice low. You startle a bit, he' right in your personal space, the presence alone makes you feel less steady--coupled with the warmth of the biomass coursing over your skin, your breath stutters inside your chest. “There was something missing, no?”

And he leans in, just as the tendrils reach further around your neck and glide onto your collar. Transfixed, you barely notice when a curled tendril nudges your chin upwards. Alex tilts his head and presses his lips to yours. It feels nothing like it used to, all those years ago when you 'dated'--there's a fog draw over your mind, this kiss is more fevered, more wanton than ever before.

As an unspoken agreement, the vines drift lower across your chest and stomach drawing out a hesitant moan from you and onto his lips as the searing heat of them burn over your skin--you grow suddenly aware of everything. The warmth of Alex's body stuck to yours, the strange, entrancing bloated and twitching entities against your skin, your stiff nipples, the goosebumps over your skin, your rapid heartbeat and shallow breath when Alex breaks off the kiss.

As much as you attempt to calm yourself, your chest heaves with excitement, your cheeks bloom with embarrassment. His body presses into yours hard, the vines coil over your skin and hold you tight--and all of him is so hot--there's not enough hair to fill your lungs, he lays a scorching hot kiss against your cheek.

His not-breath ghosts over your cheek, teasing your ear when Alex begins, “I remember you decided to break up, I can't remember over what but... I think whatever it is I could not give to you then--”

You feel it then, a vine of biomass gliding underneath your clothes, tearing guilty moans from you while he resumes, “Well, I have it now.”


	3. [T] Cliffhanger (Vorik/Reader + Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Un Long Dimanche de Fiançailles universe, the new couple tries to deepen their bond by indulging in Vorik's favorite outdoor activity... It's going as well as you'd expect.
> 
> Reader has no set gender.
> 
> Word Count: 1,104

The simulated Vulcan Sun is punishingly hot, drawing out sweat from your skin. Its bright rays wash out the pains of sand that stretch as far as the eye can see. Momentarily stopping your climb, you take in the hellish landscape. Rocky, most likely wild sehlat infested, mountain ranges jut from the ground as if torn from the hostile environment. Far over the uneven dunes of piled sand, a storm is just coming into existence.

The Vulcan Forge is what, in your humble opinion, religious folks had in mind when describing the circles of hell--a desert of burning sand. In the distance, you hear a slow rumble. Metallic clicks ahead of you cut into your thoughts.

“The Holkaus is on the verge of eruption.” Your muscles strain and ache when you glance upward to follow Vorik's progress. The engineer's fast in the uphill climbing and even quicker to spot the proper divots in the rock to hoist himself up. “We should make it in time if we hurry.”

In human speech, it'd come off as a less diplomatic; “Move your fucking ass, I am not missing this because you insisted on getting thirds of Neelix's distrustful chocolate pudding two days in a row.”

“Aye, aye,” You respond, feeling the burn in your muscles when you propel yourself upwards. The uneven rock juts out in odd places it's no surprise when it cuts into your hand. The holodeck safeguards have been altered by the same Vulcan expertly climbing ahead of you for a more realistic feel of the Forge and then, fresh-faced and quite excited to share in your mate's favorite outdoor activity you'd agreed to the changes. Now, with a bleeding, open palm, an uncomfortably tight harness digging into your upper thigh and growing dehydrated from the high temperature, you regret every single decisions you've made that led you here.

Upon reaching the top, Vorik disappears over the edge and with him the sole redeeming feature of your visit to the holodeck. You reach into your chalk bag with your uninjured hand and use the safer grip to advance further up. A small, barely there shaking encourages you to do so faster. The building magma underneath the ground is turbulent enough to cause tremors.

You move your personal anchor and will away the warm pain in your palm and the burn in your arms. May it be due to the thinner air or unfamiliar exercise, you feel a tightening in your chest--you're growing breathless. The top is just a few feet away, you can feel the recreated dry breeze caressing your cheeks as it cascades down the slope.

You push yourself and lean into your one good hand. Before you can experiment putting weight onto your injured one, Vorik reappears over the edge of the cliff. A soft smile draws on his lips though most of his face is hidden by a dark cast of shadows. “The lava fields on the North side of the mountain are very pleasing to the eye,” He comments while reaching down for your hand. You take it before unhooking your anchor. While pulled over to the uneven mountain top, you look at the sheer drop below.

“This reproduction of the T'Veneeng mountain range is accurate, it's 3,672 feet. I made the climb alongside my mother's father as a child.”

“A child?” You huff, catching your breath.

“I was 10 years old in Earth years.”

You're too busy drowning yourself with the water in your canteen to respond to his bragging. The sights are better from here, you think, or at least for something so deadly to your race you reason with yourself when the shaking beneath your feet grows stronger and the volcano becomes more and more tempestuous. The irregular, saw-teethed faraway plains of sand must be crawling with unseen wildlife. There's hardly a cloud in the sky. When you sit down next to him to admire the Holkaus' eruption and the pooling of lava into the blood red lava field, you can almost bear the additional heat of his skin.

“You do not enjoy our time together.” Vorik sighs.

“Of course I do!”

All Vorik does is look at you like your mind is an open book which to be fair it is--

“Alright, I don't.” He purses his lips. “I love the time we spend together, don't ever doubt that. It's just...” Your fingers tap against the metal of your canteen. “I'm sweating, and I'm aching all over and it's so hot.”

“I apologize, you had been complaining of a lack of exercise. I thought partaking in one of my interests would please you.”

You lean into his shoulder, “Hey, you always indulge my holonovels.” Your mind draws back to last week when you had the pleasure of cajoling a smoking pipe in his mouth and dragging the stiff-lipped Vulcan into the holo replicated streets of London. “It's only fair I try out your own hobbies.”

Vorik takes his eyes off the still-spitting volcano. “Something is wrong.”

“I already told you I love our time together, I wouldn't lie about that.”

“No, I can smell it.” Vorik draws back, eyes searching. “You are bleeding.”

“Oh.” You bring up your hand. The wound's mostly closed by now, the blood around it is drying rapidly. “Just a scratch. It doesn't hurt anymore.”

Fingers roughened from the climb take hold of your hand, the pads of his fingers are greener than usual due to the interrupted blood flow. Vorik slowly prods around the slash in your palm, “You appear to be correct.” With the prolonged skin contact, you feel the concern behind the words. “I told you before, you must not restrain yourself from sharing your feelings with me. You hurt yourself, you should not hide this from me.”

“I wasn't planning on it... I just didn't want you to miss the program. I know how much time you spent recreating the Forge.”

“It is of little matter to me. Your health is far more important to me than a holodeck program.”

“Such a romantic.”

You feel his fingers caress your knuckles, the tips slowly trailing up and down your fingers. Before long, the terrifying grumbling of the volcano grows softer even as the ground shakes apart and cracks. Distant whistles of steam escaping through the jagged cracks reach up to the summit.

His nose wrinkles. You already know, his nose is far too sensitive. “I know I'm sweating. Don't say anything--and I might share the shower.”

Wisely, Vorik chooses silence.


	4. [E] Queen of the Night (Haytham Kenway/Reader + Escort, Modern Setting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's opera night and all the reader has to do is keep a smile on their face and not fuck up. Reader is a sex worker/escort and Haytham's the client, it's uncharted territory for the both of them.
> 
> Word Count: 1,932

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written some more about this with kinky bdsm added into it but nothing seems to stick :/
> 
> Edited 29/11/2010 because I decided to add in the smut I was doubtful about

It is quite shameful, your current situation, really. You have mulled it over for quite some time now.

You took a step forward into the luxurious lobby, feeling intimidated surrounded by such a throng of sharply-dressed people. You knew you were dressed up enough to fit in, your clothes and jewelry helped you pass as one of those high society folk, so sophisticated and poised, but there’s this gnawing fear in the back of your head that you’re not enough still, that they can see right through you, right down to your very core. That they know.

Your work isn’t supposed to be done in such an open place, no matter how demanding the client. It’s always clean, neat, to the point, en tête-à-tête.

However your employer salivated at the mention alone of this very particular, extremely demanding client.

The firm hand resting on your lower back, the only reason why your step doesn’t falter, keeps a steady pressure on as the man walks you further into the building, saluting and greeting familiar faces as you go. He takes to all this spectacle like a fish to water, waltzing into and gracefully withdrawing from conversations as he pleases. Perhaps he picks up on your uneasiness through the curt answers you give to prying questions from his acquaintances, your increasing tendency to pick at your sleeves and bracelets but for now he doesn’t mention it.

You progress into the bowels of the opera, the other couple supposed to occupy the grand tier alongside you appearing to be absent. You’re guided there by staff who you’d mistake for other guests by their postures and speech it it weren’t for their uniforms. He attempts to maintain a discussion as you walk. Subjects revolve around the opera you’re about to see. You’re anxious to do something with your hands, for your nails to tap against and dig into something.

“You’re tense.” He dully notes at some point, right as the usher guides you to your seats, “Is everything alright?”

~~“I feel small.” – “I don’t like it here.” – “I have so many regrets.” – “My mom was right.”~~

“It’s only my first time. I’ve only ever watched those in cinemas or at home.”

He only smiles, clearly amused, you did just fine. Good. You only have the time to slide your coat off before he pulls you closer to him while his hand slides further down along your hip, he sounds playful when he says, “Not the last one I hope.”

It takes an eternity for the overture to finish, the only distraction apart from the overbearing crescendo is only a hint of the actor peeking from behind an immense veil and you simply wait as the music picks up, then slows down, a cacophony of brass and wind instruments clashing together. Despite all of this, your generous benefactor doesn’t flinch one bit, he is transfixed even as it plays out. You envy how comfortable he is in such a setting, how natural it all seems to him.  
He fits here, he belongs here.

The surtitles help with the comprehension of the intrigue and yet, despite the – surely – talented actors and singers, you’re relieved when it is finally time for the intermission. Your ass hurts from seating still for so long on your fairly sensitive behind after yesterday’s scene. You think he knows, he looks proud of himself when he gives you his arm to lead you to the bar and catches your visible and audible wince. You’d rather stay alone for some time, preferably in a small bathroom stall.

However, it’s important that you keep your eyes on the prize. And your mind off the cluster of people laughing and talking around you two. You weave through some finely attired folks who look as if they’d fit far better in a modern royal court or among the highest spheres of society… Well judging by where they now stand, they most likely are.

~~You had been curious, you had to admit, how much did those seats cost anyway? Too much, far too much was the answer Who ever had that kind of money, huh? Drug lords. Drugs lords did. And you’re more or less convinced he’s given you a false name, what kind of British guy has an Arabic name anyway?~~

As you walk, your step far quicker than it ought to be, some eyes trail over your figure, making you hyper-aware of your every actions, stance, clothes. Your hair must be dry and standing up from where you rested the back of your head on the seat. Your feet ache from the constant pressure from your brand new heels, you’re half sure you’re even stumbling a little.

You’re finally stopped in the center of the room, another couple of unknowns commiserating with him, only occasionally looking your way or addressing you. You should be just fine with this, really but you do feel put off by the complete dismissal. Minutes pass this way, the entire scene only highlighted by a server who delivers you a flute of champagne with a small smile. There must have been a joke or a witty commentary for everyone laughs and you softly join in, bringing the glass to your lips whenever the attention’s off of you.

The hand on the small of your back comes back with a vengeance and again, you politely smile and make your farewells before walking away. You dispose of the drink on your way out and seize another full one from a server’s tray with such grace it even surprises you.  
The man at your side comments on the people you’ve just been with, only loosely explaining that they work together in a way.

“In a way?” You feel just tipsy enough to go on, “In a way… Oh, please.” You drag on the ‘way’ with an exaggerated stuck-up tone before snapping back to your usual clueless demeanor, pliable eye-candy as you should be. You can still feel the shame painfully register, the blood pouring into your cheeks though. You can almost see your paycheck slip in between your fingers, hear your boss’ angry shouts after having lost such a well-paying customer.  
You can’t seem to be able to close your mouth shut, oscillating between opening it and closing again, unable to process a worthy apology.

You expect an upset, confused inquisition but instead you get a loud burst of laughter that he attempts with little success to settle to a mild chuckle. He has to hold his own glass in a tight grip as the alcohol threatens to spill over its rim. He finally looks up from over his cuff, cheeks having taken a rosy tint and simply smiles through it all. It’s not your fault if you let out a few giggles, his laugh has this strange boisterous edge to it and you join in soon enough, uncaring of the stares you most definitely get.

Once back in your seats and you have gone back to discreet and far more ‘professional’ discussion, comes the dreaded polite question, “How are you enjoying the opera so far?” _Shit_.

“It’s quite...” ~~Stupid, old, senseless, exaggerated, nonsensical, kitsch, boring. You had already listened to the pre-recorded aria and this soprano pales in comparison to the other. And the costumes? Horrendous. Who ever though in their right mind that modern attire fit this setting?~~ “Not at all what I expected.”

He has to stifle another laugh, softly shaking his head before saying, “You hate it, don’t you?”

“No!” You almost protest, but you can feel your charade nearing its end… Plus the prospect alone of cutting short your visit here is more than enough to tempt a hasty retreat.

“Well?” He presses, taking a sip of his own glass, gray eyes spying you over its rim.

Under such an intense stare, you almost consider lying.

* * *

You almost choke on your next sip of what has to be the tastiest champagne you’ve ever had and simply stare back at him.

“What?” You manage to keep calm enough to ask, suspiciously looking around as people file into the neighboring boxes, “This is… insane!”

“You said you had no interest in the opera and I want to stay and listen,” He calmly explained as if all was right as rain, this proposal as usual as someone asking for the time.

The lights went out, the musicians rehearsing coming to a halt, “Still!” Your mind went back to those curved dividers separating you from other members of the audience. “Someone will see us!”

“How do you know?” Comes the husky response, his voice lowered to the point it almost sounds like a whisper, “Hush now.” He stands and disappears behind you, tugging at your arm until you sit down to the seats behind your original ones. You have to sit down on his lap, valiantly trying to ward him off even as he coerces the fight out of you.

“We’re exposed!” You think to the upper stalls and balcony overlooking the stage and by addition… you.

The cover of the dark offers little to no privacy, every sound you make or he does are amplified by a thousand it seems. The main character – you think she is at least – sings her lungs out yet you know, you just know, that her voice doesn’t cover the various noises that break through your tight lips and the rustle of clothing as he hikes up your dress and gets his own clothing out of the way.  
By doing so, he pushes your front into the chair in front of you, holding you by the back of your neck, only being careful about your hair.

The chain of your necklace is tight around your neck, and his fingers slip to leave it hanging once again. His cold hands roam over your skin, fingers digging into the flesh and purposefully lifting you up and then slowly down, inching inside of you, the previous acts easing the process that would have surely been treacherously slow otherwise. He drags against every nerve, huffs when your hips roll back into him.

The rhythm and force he sets are hard enough to jolt you forward and heat blooms in your cheeks when any noise resounds from where your skin meets his. 

Your heart seizes as the music seems to grind to a close--you break out of your daze with utter shock over your own actions. A weak complaint begins to claw its way out of your throat when a sudden but pleasant pain blossoms over the swell of your ass. The consequential resounding noise of flesh hitting flesh mortifies you. You lie in wait for confused, questioning murmurs to erupt from the neighboring private boxes and stalls. You lower your head in shame, digging your fingers into the plush seat before you while Haytham's hands guide you back into his hips.

However, he’s the one to break the quasi-silence, speaking over the loud percussion and sudden tenors, “Hush--otherwise, at this rate we're sure to be discovered....”

You only spare one look behind you, chancing a glance at him, only too see him sitting back in the half-light, eyes locked where your two bodies meet. Once facing the front again, you bite your lip, moving your hips still, keeping your eyes closed as not to get overwhelmed by the abundance of people that you are sure to find surrounding you.

He still manages to laugh through this situation and you can hear the smirk in his voice as he whispers, “Come on, eyes on the stage.”


	5. [M] Unnatural (Jacob Seed/Deputy + ABO)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deputy has the unluckiness to draw the attention of the oldest Seed brother.
> 
> Deputy has no set gender but is an omega.
> 
> Word Count: 1,261

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to go further into an explicit scene but I simply couldn't...
> 
> There's a lot of dubcon to actual noncon, hurt and implied torture... cuz you know--Jacob

They're obscured by the faithful lining to defend his brother, that's the first time he sees them, in the church. At first his eyes slide right off them, they appear plain in their uniform, the plush pink of their lips draws his attention for only a moment before he proceeds to take in the Marshal and Sheriff. The acidic smells of anger from alphas and omegas cleansed from their suppressants nearly overpower the washed-out ones from the officers.

Joseph profits from his closeness to the deputy handcuffing his wrists and Jacob can easily hear the disapproval in his voice when he speaks to them. “You answer to cruel masters, deputy.” The deputy in question avoids his brother's gaze, leading him away even as he proceeds, “Forcing you into the world addled and hidden from your true purpose.”

The deputy walks to the tune of both the Marshal and Sheriff's orders as Joseph raises his voice to the faithful, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free!” As Joseph walks in between the pews and Jacob follows into John's footsteps, he can set aside Faith's strong scent and focus on the weakened omega's leading his brother away. The latter says, louder than before, “Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery!”

/

The second time he sees them, in the same night, they're stuck in the helicopter's carcass. Blood drips down from their forehead, even as it flows into their eye, he can barely detect a spike in their scent. Looking down at the writhing mess they make, Jacob sees that a clumsy hand is wrapped around a combat knife, they're even attempting to get up. He flattens their wrist with a press of his boot and watches the knife clatter to the ground, watches their teeth gnash and eyes water from the pain that radiates through their body. Their lips draw back, even as their faint smell of anger is dulled further by the blood of the others around them, Jacob can discern the raw fury behind those eyes.

He can't help the easy smile that draws on his lips, or the low growl rumbling in his chest. The sound, of all things, seems to awaken something in the suppressed omega. They echo his warning with an angry snarl. Laboriously, their hand closes on his shin, the one he has pinned to the ground stumbles with the knife.

The visual under him is easily one of the most tantalizing thing Jacob has ever laid eyes upon. Omegas are not meant to be like the deputy here, wiped from the world and the alphas coveting them... but they were made to be strong, to fight their claiming, never to submit until being made to.

The deputy's show of gritted teeth is useless, so's their flagging grip on the weapon but they awake the alpha within, enough to urge him to make the squirming omega submit. They fight him, best as they can, he can feel their nails through his fatigues and the weak palm strikes on the outside of his boot. His eyes darken at their efforts and he leans down enough to look into their eyes when he presses his weight onto their wrist. They thrash and whimper still and it's only when Jacob feels the surrender of the bones beneath his heel that they relent.

Tears flow freely off the side of their face but the added pain's made them despondent, they barely blink before their eyes roll to the back of their head.

There and then, just as John works his fingers through the beta deputy's long braid of hair and asks to keep her, Jacob considers it. He's already been given the omega pilot, looks easy to break and condition. The other deputy under him, now aware enough to slur their words but lying prone, is a much better challenge, a more... alluring challenge--he decides he wishes to keep them too.

Jacob should see this coming then, that such a strong omega, no matter how long they've stayed hidden from the world with these unethical suppressants, would find a way to escape his hold.

It's alright, Montana isn't by any means a progressive haven, these poisonous suppressants were hard to come by before, now they're nigh impossible to acquire. Before long, there will be word of an omega perilously close to a heat, hiding away in a captured outpost off the edge of the Whitetails, waiting for it to pass under the guard of betas.

He'll know when to strike, Jacob can assess what level of degradation his omega will be on judging by the evolution of the one in his custody. One day, Peaches breaks into a fever, running his voice hoarse in the early hours of the morning for help. Just an hour later, his scouts report an Omega has been hidden away just North of the Henbane. Guards have been tasked with the surveillance of The Deputy, standing upwind from the woodwork cabin, anyone can tell from miles away that an omega awaits for an alpha to join them.

Of course they fight, just as he expected them to do. Their movements are drowsy and slow, as if their fists are weighed down by an invisible force. They try to go for his face, alarmed by the blood of their friends that paint his own fists. They're far from their peak, half distracted by the presence of an alpha in closed quarters. Their lips draw back still, a low angry noise in their throat.

But in the end, eyes blown wide and drooling around his fingers, they moan and jerk under his touch. Their panting breaths brush against his cheek when he speaks, “Look at you now, this is how you were meant to be.”

They can't repress the shiver that courses through their body, can't suppress their cry when his teeth sink into their neck.

“Come now,” Jacob insists even as he feels his rut coming in, soon even his mind will be made prey to his base urges. They shed their clothes on their own volition, claw at his own with desperate pleas silenced before they can escape their mouth. “You can do it.” He laughs cruelly when their eyes clear enough from their heat to darken in anger.

He loosens his grip on their face, pushing their chin until their eyes meet.

“...Please.”

“Speak up, Omega.”

“Please...” Jacob swipes his thumb over their lower lip, the rise and fall of their chest quicken. They can taste the blood on his skin--the blood of all their friends he's culled to claim them. They know. And still they cling to their alpha, willing for him to have them. “Please, fuck me."

They scratch his back, attempt to lull him into a languid pace with the grind of their hips against his. Not what he needs.

“No.” He stands still under their ministrations, impassive in front of their need. “Speak up.”

“Please, Jacob--Alpha--fuck me.”

“I hoped you'd have let me do this properly.” He hums into their neck, finally throwing them off where they sat astride him. Half undressed, their face torn in between fury and hunger, he wipes the memory of them he had lying in the crash and stinking of oil and bitter meds-- _this_ is the most pleasing sight of his omega he's had yet.

“Don't worry, _Deputy_.” He snorts, lowering his lips onto theirs in a caricature of a tender kiss. “I will make sure you won't deny yourself of me again.”


	6. [T] Tw@ (Niko Bellic/Reader + Poorly written fight scene)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're just trying to make a barely living wage and keep a hot, older boyfriend in your bed. You didn't sign up to be assaulted at work by some non-paying customer exclaiming you stole her man.
> 
> Gender-Neutral Reader
> 
> Word Count: 937

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean... I can't be the only one to like him right? ...right?

You see all types coming through, from the shifty – most likely to have a gun stashed away in the back of their pants – gentlemen to the most eccentric of your fellow Libertarians with an exhibitionist streak far from discouraged by the cafe's other patrons. It was always a pleasure reviewing the security footage to find out you’d been handed a single after an intense bout of self-love.  
Whichever poor bastard who ended up stuck behind the pastry counter was in no better a state and depending if the kid came stoned or sober would snap on new gloves every other purchases.

The blond bombshell whose shift just ended before yours had slapped the change into the register as if it’d burned her the second she saw you come in. The intensity of her accent seemed to have tripled while she stripped off her Tw@ hat and began fishing for her handbag under the counter.  
She simply pointed out the new arrivals and you waved her off, the computer screen already displaying the store’s computers in use. She finally walked off – although it looked more like a light jog – to a waiting car and disappeared into the night.

Thus began the graveyard shift.

Nothing particular happened, the usual broke college kids came in, riffling through their pockets for proper change, some more people trickled in through the early hours of the day. The only surprising visitor spoke with a destabilizing thick accent that briefly shook off your exhaustion and captured your interest. Nik or Niko something, you'd learned over the weeks spoke little and when engaged never showed anything but politeness.

You watch him stride over to the nearest monitor before a pair of rolled-up plastic gloves come to fly into your face, your eyes snap to the girl behind the pastry counter who only snickers at you as she takes off her apron. Some powdered sugar still clings to it, falling off in little clouds when she comes behind you to hang it into the glorified broom closet behind the main counter.

“I saw you all perked up there,” She says, not discreet at all even when the man in question is sitting right there and she just laughs, “Didn’t know you liked older guys.”

“I don’t.” You go press in the new entry into the system with way much force than necessary. The door closes behind you and the shitty wood can’t even do a proper job at stifling her laughter. The next customer then comes to the till to check out, the clerk slaps your hip when she leaves.

//

“Where the fuck is he, bitch!?”

You suppose you were doomed from the start. It should have been obvious that Niko was too good to be true, from the nice cars to the amazing action under the sheets. He reminded you of the slew of high school boyfriends you had in that way, near perfect facade but rotten insides--or, as you understood while avoiding a deft swipe of the woman's fist, a secret girlfriend.

You backed up behind the register, using it to shield yourself from the woman's assault.

“I think there's been a misunderstanding!”

The clouds seemed to part then, the totally-sceret-girlfriend's traits eased into an open-mouthed expression, as if she had seen the Light and come down from her high to impart her newfound wisdom with the homewrecker whose face she'd spent the last ten minutes trying to maul.

“Oh, a misunderstanding...” She nodded sagely and you mimicked her gesture uncertainly. The customers on your left buzzed with excitement, the occupants of the café clearly hadn't had their daily dose of bloodshed in the subway and thirsted for some of yours.

“That's right, ma'am.” You softly encouraged, now wondering how you'd twist this to become a humorous event to tell over a drink. “I had no idea Ni--he had a girlfriend.”

“Is that why...” The nameless woman looked at you from underneath her blonde bangs, joining her fingers together. The light catches on the gold rings on her fingers as she softly claps her hands together. “...you think it's okay to steal someone's else's man?”

//

Under the grimy light above your mirror, the jagged bruise that runs along your cheek looks worste than it does in natural light.

_She'd dealt some heavy damage with her golden rings--just a few slaps to the face and the world around you had been reduced to a high pitched distant whine. But once you'd drawn your fist back and made contact with her face in a single devastating blow, you'd felt the snap of cartilage against your aching knuckles. Kiki, as you later discovered was her name, had cried out in a mix of horror and outrage when she'd pulled her hands away from her face and found blood spilling free from her nose._

You shamble out of the bathroom, falling into your couch in an undignified pile of limbs. You've already received a call from the general manager, and still now you cannot believe you've lost a job over a man... of all things.

Well that was a bit of an exaggeration, but the son of a bitch had never liked you and would love nothing more than to dock you. You flipped your phone open, resigned to hit up friends and inform them they'll be the ones paying for shots from now on.

Just as you do though, the corner of the screen flashes with a message notification. There was no need to even look at the contact name, you knew only one person who fully wrote out their texts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abrupt end, but nothing fit.


End file.
